As Audition Season has started to kick into high gear here in NYC and elsewhere – and it actually started earlier this year! – here are a few quick tips and fixes for your “book” – your physical book – from a pianist’s point of view.

NOTE: The “fixes” below are all bits of practical advice, common sense, if you will. I don’t go into the areas of song selection, acting, personal coaching. Nothing should take more than a few minutes to make right. However, these very practical bits are things that can and do end up derailing an audition for both the singer and the pianist – and they are easily fixable, preventable, and avoidable.

That one favorite song that has been falling out of your binder for the past year or two (or more!) due to a worn out hole-punch and/or sheet protector: fix it NOW! Stop apologizing for the condition of your sheet music. Get thee to a copier or printer! -And if one of the rings of your 3-ring binder happens to no longer close as tightly as it used to, get a new a binder as well.

***

If you know that the copy of your sheet music is hard to read:

-it’s more “gray and white” than “black and white”
-the bass clef/left hand part of the piano is missing on every other page
-it has a bunch of old markings scribbled on it and not completely erased
-there’s a coffee stain in the middle of it

…Then just go and get a better, easily readable copy of it.

***

NO LOOSE SINGLE SHEETS!
NO.
LOOSE.
SINGLE.
SHEETS.

Put it in a binder, or mount it on a piece of cardboard or manila folder.

***

That song or cut of a song which is just two pages long – and always has been and always will be two pages long – but that you have set up in your binder as back-to-back pages thus requiring a page turn: rearrange and/or re-copy it NOW so that the pages “face” each other, thus eliminating the page turn.

***

All of those those songs that you downloaded from SheetMusicDirect, MusicNotes, OnlineSheetMusic, Scribd, etc., that have been in your binder as single-sided pieces of paper for weeks, months (or years!) after you first printed them off: spend some quality time with those pages and arrange them as if they were in a book: facing pages, complete with the occasional page turn. -And there will be less page turns now as well.

***

If something doesn’t feel right about the way you’ve cut a song to work in an audition, then tape yourself singing it, then listen to yourself. Really Listen. Does the grammar still make sense with your cut? Does the melodic and harmonic grammar still make sense? -Better yet: have someone else sing your cut so that you can hear it a bit more objectively AND subjectively. Sometimes a “Frankenstein’d cut” can indeed end up sounding monstrous.

***

Know that that copy of your favorite song from the show you just worked on that was given to you by your conductor/music director may not provide the most piano-friendly accompaniment out there. In fact, many recent shows use a piano-conductor score that is meant more for conducting from rather than playing from. All of the notes that you need and want to hear while you are singing – all the “information” that you want the pianist to play for you – may simply not be on the page. If you see a lot of small, cued notes in the “accompaniment” then that’s usually the first sign. A few of the big “offenders” in this regard are “Thoroughly Modern Millie”, “Beauty and the Beast”, and “All Shook Up”.

***

Look at exactly where you’ve written “START” and “STOP”. Are those your start and stop points? Or the pianist’s? There is usually a difference.

***

While I appreciate the service that MusicNotes provides, I still recommend going right to the two online sheet music stores that are directly aligned with the publishers:

–Sheet Music Direct* which started off as the digital offshoot of Hal Leonard’s SheetMusic Plus.

–Online Sheet Music which got its start as the digital home for Warner Bros. and Alfred. (Alfred does have it’s own digital shop, but I find their offerings and functionality limited.)

And because SMD and OSM have a more direct line to the publishers, their single-song price is also cheaper than it is on MN since MN licenses much of their catalog for resale from the Big Two. And due to the incestuousness nature of the music publishing biz, there is a big overlap in the catalogs of SMD, OSM, and MN. It’s worth the extra mouse-clicks and keystrokes to check all three sites for the song that you’re looking for.

*Note that SMD now offers unlimited transpositions and printouts of your purchased titles since they switched over to a PDF format. It’s also worth looking into the SMD PASS program which not only allows you to purchase single titles at a discount – usually 50% – but also grants you internet browser access to most of SMD’s digital library. The monthly or yearly fee can easily pay for itself with your first couple of discounted(!) downloads, purchases. (And you could always split the fee with a friend of two.)

***

Finally…

My two cardinal rules for audition prep – which essentially distill down all of the above:

1) I – the pianist – should never be the first one to play your sheet music for you.

2) If the first two words out of your mouth when you come up to me at the piano are, “I’m sorry…” then that’s already two strikes against you.

Somewhere in the air between Houston and San Diego I just started giggling. There really was nothing else I could do, and there was nothing I wanted to do in a way. The past 12 hours just seemed to be “one for the record books”. Traffic on the way to the airport. A snails-paced shuttle bus from the parking garage to the terminal. A reservation that did not come up in the system. An airline employee who kept giving me and her computer screen puzzled looks. An unusually long security screening line. An eventually missed flight which led to an unplanned four hour pre-flight layover in an amenity-starved airport. Etc., etc., etc…

Of course, the giggling didn’t start until after the second half of my journey had begun. I had yet to deal with lackadaisical janitorial practices in the terminal, an inadequate air-conditioning system, and a fellow passenger with a medical emergency (which, thankfully, was not emergency enough to cause the plane to change its course mid-flight – which, according to the chatter, could have been a possibility).

For practically anyone who’s ever met me, giggling is not an uncommon state of being for me. Part informal greeting, part coping mechanism, part stress reliever, part signal of acceptance. This time, however, was a true LOL moment. As the flight attendants continued to discuss how to proceed, as passengers stood in the aisle trapped by the beverage cart, as people who were supposed to get their free beverage — myself included – wondered if they would ever get their free beverage, I just began to think about all the bumps and inconveniences of the past 12 hours. It was all out of my control (most of it anyway). There was nothing I could have done to prevent it nor remedy it. It all just happened. Not only the past 12 hours, but also the past 12 months. It all just happened. And all I could do was giggle.

Right now, I’m in the midst of a run of a show that I had absolutely no previous investment nor interest in. It was completely off of my radar. And then like magic/coincidence/happenstance/serendipity, I’m playing again. I’m working again. I’m back at a theatre I love. I’m among people I love and missed, as well as those I’m gladly getting to know better. I’m in a place both literally and figuratively I hadn’t planned or even envisioned a year ago, let alone six months ago.

I really have no idea where I’m going with this train of thought. Or even if there is a train of thought here. What I do know is that I’m still currently in the air somewhere between Houston and San Diego, and that in less than 48 hours my youngest brother will be getting married to a woman he loves. And that will be a wonderful thing to have happened.

…In the meantime, the line for the lavatory in the main cabin has grown to six people deep. And, yes, that made me giggle.

It’s Christmas Eve. And I’m spending it – and tomorrow in New York City. It will be my first Christmas not spent with my family in many years. And this song, well…

This is for my Mom and Dad. My brothers Don, Mike and Jay. My nephew, John Michael. My nieces Alexandra, Alyssa and Emily. And for Steve.

*****

I’m dreamin’ tonight of a place I love
Even more then I usually do
And although I know it’s a long road back
I promise you

I’ll be home for Christmas
You can count on me
Please have snow and mistletoe
And presents under the tree
Christmas Eve will find me
Where the love light beams
I’ll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams

Christmas Eve will find me
Where the love light beams
I’ll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams
If only in my dreams

*****

I Miss You. I Love You.

*And I’ll definitely be seeing all of you in my dreams, and, in person(!), a few days from now.

I should be asleep by now. In fact, I should have been deep in slumber an hour ago, ideally two. Instead, I lie here in bed, my mind spinning, my head full of conversations that may or may not have occurred, in a language I barely understand, but, tonight the cadence of which stresses and unstresses in the recesses of my imagination. I could blame the sugar I consumed earlier for this bout of insomnia, sleeplessness. The cans of cane sugar-sweetened soda, the snack-size candy bars, the still-warm from-a-box-mix brownies served with two scoops of French vanilla ice cream. No. All that glucose, sucrose and high fructose corn syrup has already metabolized. Instead I just find myself thinking. Thinking too much.

The past couple of weeks have been filled with a string of unknowns. Some of those unknowns have been answered. Others have yet to be settled. Still others have reached a point where due to their intangibility they must just be accepted, reckoned with, made peace with, allowed to remain a question mark.

And so began a blog entry that I did not finish at the time. But I will finish it now. At the very least append it. -And apologize for “stresses and unstresses in the recesses”.

Those opening and closing paragraphs were written during a very dark hour, literally and figuratively. It was around 3:40 in the morning, just hours before my mom was about to go in for heart surgery. I will gloss over the details for the sake of the privacy and out of respect for my family, but I will say that at that moment I was scared.

Dealing with the “concept”(?) of someone dying – even just possibly dying – is daunting enough, but when it comes to the mortality of one’s parents, there really are no words to fully describe that feeling, that fear, that possible, tangible and intangible loneliness. Otherwise flowery language gains weight, credence, even solemnity. I was scared. And I never imagined that I could feel that so deeply.

Fast forward a few weeks later:

November 30, 2008

I’m having lunch across the table from my Mom, deciphering the Vietnamese lunch she just ordered, and talking about her upcoming trip to New York City in a few weeks.

One question answered – along with a litany of prayers. One unknown now resolved.

Each time the refrain of the “Agnus Dei” would repeat, it would not only increase in volume and texture, but in passion, despair, anger, resignation and retaliation. I just sat there and let the waves of sound and instruments and voices wash over me and surround me. I could feel my pulse quickening along with my breathing, as if I was trying to stifle an eruptive bout of sobbing.

It had been almost 30 years – 27 to be exact – since I first experienced Bernstein’s “Mass”. I still have the VHS tape that I used to record the PBS broadcast of the 10th Anniversary presentation at the Kennedy Center. At that time and at that age, I was more intrigued by the scale of the project, the seemingly disparate musical and theatrical elements, and, of course, being a “good, Catholic boy”, the controversy surrounding the treatment of the Eucharist at the climax of the piece. I remember wondering how the boy soloists got chosen to sing on TV, let alone at the Kennedy Center. I was singing in my church’s Children’s Choir, and had never been approached about possibly singing elsewhere, and I didn’t know anyone else who had either. Even my knowledge of Bernstein at that time was basically limited to “A Great Musical Figure”, “Someone Important”, the composer of West Side Story. But something caught my eyes and ears in the promos for that initial PBS broadcast, enough to make me tune in and tape it, and watch it repeatedly until no amount of tracking could ever clear up the picture. 27 years later in Carnegie Hall it would all become clear again.

From the opening tape loops going into “A Simple Song,” to the final “The Mass is ended: go in Peace,” it was a most special evening. There was definitely a Sense of Occasion. Not only was I there with a good friend, but I also happened to know a couple of the performers, and had cursorily worked with the conductor, Marin Alsop, years before she was chosen to lead the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra (which she was conducting that evening). Admittedly, there are moments in Bernstein’s “Mass” that mark it as a product of its time, but, like all great pieces of Music, there is just so much there that transcends musical categories and compositional languages. There were passages that made me feel like a wide-eyed, open-eared 13-year old again that night, but I was also reminded of the education and experience that my Life has brought me during the intervening 27 years.

We’re fed up with your heavenly silence,
And we only get action with violence,
So if we can’t have the world we desire,
Lord, we’ll have to set this one on fire!
Dona nobis, Dona nobis.

*****

November 2, 2008

Last year, there were 39,265 runners in the ING NYC Marathon, and my youngest brother, Jay, was among them. He had wanted to don his running shoes again for the course through all five boroughs, but due to his work schedule, he was not able to apply for this year’s race. However, he was able to head to New York City to cheer on and support his girlfriend, Maria, who was one of the lucky 38,832 runners selected to run in this year’s race. And just like I did last year with Jay, I was able to track Maria’s progress via SMS alerts and on the marathon’s website – from the comfortable warmth of my apartment – before heading to down to the Finisher’s Area along Central Park West.

I remember being struck by the scope and variety of everyone gathered along Central Park West last year, and this year was no different. With 38,800+ finishers, that meant that there were at least that many people trying to meet and greet them as they made their way out of Central Park. Family members, friends, co-workers, spectators, fans, fellow running enthusiasts, police, guards, medical technicians, tourists who just happened to be in town the same weekend as the race. My eye was repeatedly drawn to the finishers who were making their way through the Crowd, wrapped in their silver-blue-orange-white mylar blankets.

Some people had obviously had a much tougher race than they had planned, or ever thought they would, but their limp and hunched backs were happily betrayed by the finisher medals around their necks and the smiles on their faces. A “DNF” was not an option. Then there were all the people who just kept looking and looking for their friends and family. They would catch my glance, I would catch theirs, smile hopefully for a moment, and then once they realized that I was not whom they were looking for, they would move on to the next cluster of people holding up flowers and homemade signs of “Congratulations” and “You Did It!”. And then there were those who walked along Central Park West with their heads up, their eyes down. Not looking for anyone, no one meeting them at the finish line. Perhaps they had not even told anyone of their plans for that first Sunday afternoon in November. They had just ran the 26.2 miles for themselves. I Did It!

*****

November 4, 2008

A very different sort of race. A very different sort of finish line.

Seconds after the race was called that night, I started to hear car horns and people cheering outside, fireworks. I ran to my front door… People were leaning out of their windows continuing to spread the news at the top of their lungs… Waving American flags as they drove by in their cabs… Hugging their neighbors and strangers alike on the sidewalk. I stepped into the street, and let out my own joyful noise…

I’m not even going to attempt to explain the musical importance of these two works, especially since Mr. Denk has already done so quite beautifully and intelligently: Program Notes.

As for my opinion of the evening’s musical proceedings, there’s really not so much more that I could add to my previous “Bravo, Jeremy Denk! Bravo!” Suffice it say, it was one of those rare times when I was able to sit back in my seat and just Listen. Insightful, intelligent, thought-provoking, dazzling, coloristic piano playing, music making. A few weeks later, I still want to Listen.

*And for a very interesting and entertaining discourse on the “Hammerklavier” and “Reaganian Counterpoint” – as well as to tie this entry into the previous one – I highly recommend: The Interview.

*****

November 16, 2008

I had not really heard much about “Slumdog Millionaire” before I decided to see the movie. I knew that it was set in India. I knew that Danny Boyle was the director, and I had read the headlines of a couple of reviews, but none of their content. After being very pleasantly surprised by Boyle’s previous “fairy tale”, “Millions”, I decided to take a chance on it. In a way, I guess I followed some sort of self-created “buzz”. I’m so glad I did. It’s been a while since I’ve cheered and cried tears of joy(!) at the end of a movie.

*****

December 6, 2008

1:09pm

I’m back at MoMA, and, yes, I’m making way through the Van Gogh exhibit for the umpteenth time. I basically race through the rooms, except for a brief stop in front of “The Stevedores in Arles”, a truly fascinating painting, all yellows, ochres and greens. I make my way to the final room of the exhibit, the display of books, Van Gogh’s literary inspirations, and find myself drawn to the excerpt from Victor Hugo’s “L’Année Terrible”.

He does not complain. Proud before the filthy mob,
He laughs, since heaven is given to those who lose the world,
And since he has this hospitality for shelter,
And since –O joy! O infinity! O liberty!
Conquering fate, facing evil, piercing the veils,
Driven out by men — he can lose himself in the stars!

7:05pm

“Milk” at the AMC Empire 25 in Times Square (in theatre 25). I basically start to cry as soon as the Coming Attractions finish, and the movie proper begins. Two hours and eight minutes later and after crying a few more times, I’m once again reminded of Everyone who has gone before me. Thank you.

9:38pm

It’s snowing! I’m in Times Square. I’ve stopped crying, and the smile has returned to my face. I can’t stop giggling as I walk up Broadway from 42nd Street to Columbus Circle.

*And, as an added bonus, an express train pulls into the station as soon as I get down to the platform. Yes!

At the end of last week, I managed to view the new Van Gogh exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art three times: Thursday morning, Thursday afternoon, and Saturday afternoon. In other words, I decided to put my membership to MoMA to good use and take advantage of the Member Preview Days in order to avoid the inevitable crowds that will descend upon the museum once the exhibition opens to non-MoMA-Members. Interestingly, it wasn’t until I started drafting this entry that I realized there was a certain poetic coincidence in having the exhibit open on the First Day of Fall, or at least Fall Eve. Van Gogh’s brush strokes in various shades of yellow, brown and red, reflecting and complementing Mother Nature’s own autumnal palette change starting to take place a few blocks north in Central Park.

The exhibit, itself, is quite small in comparison to the usual retrospectives and blockbuster shows. However, it accomplishes what it sets out to accomplish with a relative handful of canvases (just under 30 paintings), and a couple of drawings and lithographs. Although there were many masterpieces hanging on the walls of the galleries, I found myself drawn to the contents of some of the vitrines, the display cases in each room of the exhibition. And, so, on this First Day of Autumn, I would like to present the following “excerpts” from the current exhibit.

The first is an actual excerpt from a letter that Vincent van Gogh wrote to his brother, Theo, which is on display in the first room of the exhibit. Like the early works that surround it, the contents of this letter already begin to hint at Van Gogh’s later, trademark style.

The second excerpt is from the last room of the exhibit. Nothing hangs on the walls in this room, instead, contained in two vitrines (I just really like that word right now) are various books, both poetry and prose (in French, German and English), that were a source of inspiration for Van Gogh. While some of the books on display are “merely” original editions from various libraries and collections, some of them are the actual copies that belonged to Theo — which, more than likely, were given to him by his brother. When Van Gogh would come across a passage or a poem that piqued his interest, he would copy them into his journals, as well as in letters to his family, friends and colleagues. This particular poem happened to pique my interest too.

**********

November 2, 1883
. . .
When dusk fell — imagine the silence, the peace of that moment! Imagine, right then, an avenue of tall poplars with the autumn leaves, imagine a broad muddy road, all black mud with the endless heath on the right, the endless heath on the left, a few black, triangular silhouettes of sod huts, with the red glow of the fire shining through the tiny windows, with a few pools of dirty, yellowish water that reflect the sky, where bogwood trunks lie rotting… The day was over, and from dawn to dusk, or rather from one night to the other night, I had forgotten myself in that symphony.
. . .

. . .
Before the end of the day there is a time
When the sun, a weary pilgrim nearing home,
Turns around and looks back
And despite the toils of the day, is sorry it is evening.
Under its long gaze, mixed with a tear,
Muddled nature takes on a new charm
And pauses a moment, as in a goodbye.
The surrounding horizon turns fire red;
The quivering flower receives the dew;
The butterfly flies back to the rose it kissed,
And the bird in the wood sings in bright birdsong,
“Isn’t it morning? Isn’t that the East?”

Oh! If for us too, in this human life,
There were an evening hour, one moment that reignites
The loves of morning and their fickle flight,
And the fresh dew, the golden clouds;
Oh! if the heart, returned to thoughts of youth
(as if hoping — alas! — that it could be reborn),
Could stop, rise up, before faltering,
And give itself over, for a single day, to dreaming without growing old.
Let us take pleasure in the sweet day;
And let us not disturb this fortunate hour.
For the fields, winter is but a good short sleep;
Each morning the sky brings sun.
But who knows if the grave will have its spring,
And if the night will be relit for us by the dawn?

Even though I had just returned from an out of town trip the night before, I was actually up and out of bed before 9:00am. I headed to the living room, watching “The Today Show” while eating my breakfast. They were about to end their broadcast for that morning – and I was about to head back to bed for a few more hours of sleep – when the first plane flew into the Tower…

The rest of that day was filled with panic, tears and confusion. I tried calling my parents, but the phone lines were jammed; however, I did eventually get through to one of my aunts and my mother. My father was still in his office in DC, but he was out of harm’s way. I called my brothers. Don had just left his daughter with the baby-sitter, and was getting ready to head back to pick her up. Mike had not heard of that morning’s news until I had called him. Jay had already been told to stay home since his office building in L.A. was a “possible target”. Thankfully, most of my friends in New York City had already contacted me via e-mail, or were chatting with me online. Don’t you think you should get off your computer to free up the phone lines up there?

Eventually, I made my way out of the apartment – away from the TV – and headed over to the hospital to meet Steve for lunch, and some hugs.

I had expected a bit more angst at the hospital regarding what had happened that morning in New York City, Washington, DC, and Pennsylvania, but things were strangely calm. In fact, it almost seemed like some people there – patients and staff – had not heard of that morning’s events yet. It was both calming and confusing at the same time.

*****

A few months later, Steve and I drove up to New York City with some friends for a weekend of fun in the Big Apple. It was their first trip to New York City. As we neared the end of the New Jersey Turnpike, I turned to my right, and noticed What Was No Longer There. If I hadn’t been the one driving the car, I probably would have broken down in tears right then and there.

-Did you guys ever go to the top of the World Trade Center?
-Actually, we did go into the Towers, but since it was cloudy that day, we didn’t go up to the Observation Deck. I guess we should have.-Well, at least you got to see them.

*****

In the spring of 2006, my friend, Andy, came up to New York City for a visit. Somehow, during the course of our wandering around the city, we ended up around the World Trade Center site. We decided to walk over. I think that was only my second or third time down there.

I could already sense the anxiety building up inside of me when I was just a few blocks away, and as I approached the sidewalk… The tourists having their pictures taken in front of What Used To Be There, smiling and waving and laughing… The streets vendors selling framed pictures of the Twin Towers before, during and after the Event… I walked over to Engine Co. 10… I started to read the Names…

I grabbed Andy’s hand, “I need to get out of here.”

*****

9/11/2008

I did sleep in this morning, and when I turned on the TV and saw and heard the reading of the Names… Yes, I cried again.

*****

A few months ago, I found myself heading back from a friend’s place during the early morning hours. He happens to live just a few blocks from the World Trade Center site. I guess I decided to test myself, so I walked over the fencing and barricades. I started looking around. I even read the Names. No tears this time, just Acceptance. There were no vendors, no tourists – although, I guess I was a tourist at the overnight hour. There were a few security guards, construction workers and policemen walking around, but, for the most part, it was just me and What Used To Be There. And my camera.

It was comforting and encouraging to know that there could still be moments of Calm and Peace and Respect amongst all that steel, concrete, machinery and scaffolding. Nothing will ever be able to replace what We lost seven years ago, but it’s good to know that Life has gone on since then. And still does.

This post is, more or less, a follow-up to my previous post. More or less.

First of all, I am 40! So far, so good. Very good. It seems like I’ve been celebrating almost every day for the past two weeks. My Birthday proper was filled with friends, food and ice cream, of course. More precisely, the Blueberry Crumble Frozen Custard from Shake Shack.

Shake Shack's Blueberry Crumble Frozen Custard

However, during the rest of my Birthday Week – Hey! I turned 40, I deserved a Full Week! – I also happened to make a couple of return visits to that yellow truck parked on Broadway between 74th and 76th Streets. So, without further ado… And in order of appearance, consumption and enjoyment… (all flavors listed from the cup/cone on up)

I had spotted the truck a few weeks ago. There it was parked quietly and unassumingly on Broadway in the middle of the Upper West Side. I didn’t know what to make of it at first, but as I got closer and could start to make out the white script lettering against the antique yellow paint job: Van Leeuwen, Artisan Ice Cream. I would have sampled a bit of their Ginger or Giandujia ice cream right then and there, but since I was approaching the truck with a small cup of Grom’s Caramel gelato already in hand, I would have to postpone my maiden tasting until a later date.

This whole summer seems to have been filled with some very happy, happenstance discoveries – and not all of them culinary (believe it or not). While paying a visit to the Museum of Modern Art, I not only gained a further appreciation of architecture through "Home Delivery: Fabricating the Modern Dwelling," and continued to be wondered by "Dali: Painting and Film," but I happened to stumble upon "Kirchner and the Berlin Street."

I don’t think I had ever noticed any of Leon Kirchner’s work before at MoMA, the National Gallery of Art, the Art Institute of Chicago, or any other museum; and if I had, they had never caught my eye and brain in the way they do know. The main focus of the exhibition is Kirchner’s representation of some of the seedier elements of street life of Berlin right before World War I. Cocottes. Prostitutes. The paintings and subject matter are both beautiful and ugly at the same time. Vibrant and veiled. Exciting and dangerous. There is one pastel – "The Red Cocotte" – where the artist’s hand, his strokes are so deliberate, almost violent, yet they do nothing but bring life to a patch of pavement on which his figures stand.

It surprised me just how intrigued I was by the exhibit as a whole, but in particular the larger canvases. The colors, the sense of motion, even a palpable sense of desperation coupled with cautionary discretion. It was all new to me. New to my eyes. New to my mind.

So, as I left MoMA earlier today after paying another visit to the Kirchner exhibit, I began to walk back towards Columbus Circle in order to hop on the A or D Train back uptown. I stopped into Petrossian, but once inside, I decided that a pain au chocolat was not what I was really in the mood for. Once I was at Columbus Circle, I then stopped into The Shops, and checked to see what Bouchon was offering today. Again, I passed on selecting anything from their assortment of cookies, tarts and pastries. As I left the glass-enclosed air conditioning and stepped back onto the late-August, summer sidewalk… Ice cream! Where was that yellow truck again?

What followed was a personal, technologically-hindered comedy of errors. I tried to search for "van leeuwen ice cream truck" via Google on my iPhone, but the connection kept timing out. I called directory assistance, carefully spelling out the name of the company, and was automatically connected to a company that sells "natural casings" for sausages. -Didn’t I say "ice cream company"? I tried Google again: "van leeuwen ice cream phone number". The connection timed out again. And again. Well, if I’m going to treat myself to ice cream, I might as well keep walking up Broadway. And if the truck is not there, then I can just go to Grom again.

61st… 62nd… 63rd… As I reach each intersection, I try my best to peer ahead to the next one and beyond, looking – hoping – for a glimpse of that yellow truck. I walk past Lincoln Center… 67th… 68th… 69th… The only ice cream trucks I spy are Mister Softee and his imposters. 72nd… 73rd… My heart begins to sink… Grom it is.

But as I finish crossing 73rd Street, I catch a glimpse of yellow just beyond the next corner, partially obscured by some pay phones and a news stand. Even though a smile had crept back on my face, I had not yet breathed a sigh of relief. There’s no line. Is it closed? I exhaled as I saw a vanilla cone being handed over to a mother, who then passed it down to her stroller-bound daughter. I quickened my pace.

As the gentleman in front of me ordered a scoop of "John-duh-doo-gee-ya", I finalized my order. A medium – two scoops: one of Red Currant and Cream, one of Chocolate. -Although, the "John-duh-doo-gee-ya" was also still a possibility. However, I would opt for a sugar cone instead my usual cup. I did stick to my original order – and the cone – but I also asked for a sample of the Ginger too (for future reference).

Before finally sampling my first – and formerly postponed – taste of this "artisan ice cream", I had to document the occasion with my camera. -Another new development cum requisite whenever I come across a new food, treat, indulgence. Since I had a slowly melting ice cream cone in one hand, and a camera with room for only three more pictures, I had to work fast and efficiently. Click. Click. I was not happy with the first two pictures. I thought the truck would "read" in the background, but it didn’t seem to frame the two scoops properly. Then I took a few steps to the right, and realized that the front part of the truck would provide the perfect backdrop – the yellow of the truck, the windshield, the headlights, even the white script lettering. And if I turned the ice cream cone just a quarter to the left… Click. Perfect!

After that final delay, I took my first taste. The Chocolate was indeed chocolate-y: cold, creamy, sweet, smooth. Then came the Red Currant and Cream. At first, I thought I was tasting ice, like the bits of water from the ice cream scoop that refreeze after scooping, but then I realized that I was tasting the red currants. Fresh red currants. Each now-frozen, little red berry providing a cold crunch, a brief hint of acid, sour, and a bit of texture in direct – but complementary – contrast to the not-at-all vanilla vanilla ice cream. Ruby red polka dots in a field of white. -Well, off-white.

The ice cream consumed – enjoyed, savored – the napkin crumpled and thrown into a trash can, my thoughts turned to tomorrow. My birthday. My 40th Birthday. What everyone else seems to be calling, "The Big 4-0!" "You should plan a big party." -No, I’ve never been one for big parties. "You should do something really special for yourself". -Possibly.

So there I was on the corner of 82nd and Broadway. My thirties coming to a close in a matter of hours. No party planned. Something special still just a possibility. Then as I noticed the small dribble of vanilla ice cream on my t-shirt, I took stock of what had happened so far today. Not only had I just revisited a few pieces of Art, but I had also discovered, tasted and experienced something new. But couldn’t that new discovery have taken place a few weeks ago when I had first caught sight of that yellow truck? Could I have not wandered almost accidentally into the Kirchner exhibit earlier this afternoon instead of during the Member Preview Days?

Today, I am 39. Tomorrow, I was 39. Today is and was a day just like any other day. Tomorrow will be too. It just happens to be My Birthday. However, I will not only be turning 40, but I will also have another chance to try the Ginger. Or the "John-duh-doo-gee-ya".

The mezzo-soprano was in the middle of spinning the second phrase of "La flûte de Pan"…

Pour le jour de Hyacinthies,Il m’a donné une…

…when the gentleman turned to his female companion and whispered something along the lines of "Oh, she sings well, no? And in French too!" The requisite head nods of agreement and self-confirmation soon followed. I was seated in the second row of the small hall, and this couple was seated in front of me… In the front row. During the pause before "La chevelure", the woman picked up her program, then pointed out where the next sets of texts and translations started…

Il m’a dit: "Cette nui, j’ai rêve."

Another set of head nods accompanied by some still-audible murmurings of the English translations, which I then realize were colored with a Germanic accent.

The whispering, the head nodding and program shuffling continued throughout Debussy’s Chansons de Bilitis, and I eventually realized that I was not alone in my irritation at the apparent lack of manners on display. Other audience members in the immediate vicinity started to look over at them too. At one point, I was about to put my hand on the shoulder of the gentleman as a way of silently saying, "Please, could you be more respectful of the Artists… Who just happen to be performing just six feet away from you!?" However, I was afraid any sort of gentle physical contact would have prompted an ever more audible and demonstrative response, so I refrained.

After "Le tombeau des naïades" came to a close, there were a few moments of silence followed by a well-deserved and freely offered round of applause. As the applause died down, I was able to confirm that the couple sitting in front of me were indeed German – well, perhaps even Austrian. The woman then turned around looking for some friends who were seated a couple of rows back, motioning them to come join her in the front row since the seats next to her remained unoccupied. Apparently, her friends wished to stay put for the time being which resulted in the woman making even larger gestures in exasperation. All I could think to myself was, "Good. They’re not to join her. That would just give her more people to talk to during the recital."

The house lights dimmed once again, the door stage left opened, and the Artists walked back onto the stage. Of course, this only prompted the couple in front of me to re-shuffle and re-open their programs to the texts of the Schumann, followed by more audible whispering and head-nodding. As the pianist played those first two pensive quarter notes chords, they were still whispering, talking to each other. I just had to take action. While gently placing my hand on the man’s right shoulder, I whispered….

"Silence, s’il vous plait."

Why I suddenly started uttering in French is beyond me, and I even ended up laughing at myself, to myself – inaudibly! – for a split second. However, my very gentle protestation seemed to do the trick. Silence.

Sadly, halfway through "Du Ring am meinem Finger", the women raised her program up to eye level, pointed to something, and then nudged her companion to look at what she was looking at: the pianist’s program biography. And, yes, during the brief piano postlude that completes Frauenliebe und -Leben, they started conferring with each other again, long before the pianist extinguished the ringing of the final notes by releasing the damper pedal. Intermission.

As I re-setttled myself in my seat, I noticed that the woman’s friends had gone ahead and joined her in the front row for the second half of the program. What is the German for "Please, be quiet"? Fortunately, the other couple seemed to be on their better behavior. Truth be told, it seemed that the husband did not really want to be there, and he remained slouched – and silent! – in his seat throughout the Harbison and de Falla song cycles. The woman and her companion also seemed to be a bit more settled during the second half, although, I could tell they were questioning exactly what an "aerial" was during "Ballad for Billie I" – more finger-pointing and whispering. Then there was the rhythmic head-nodding and hair-bouncing during the more dance-inspired selections of the Siete canciones populares Españolas, "Jota" seemed particularly motion-inducing. Even I will admit to air-playing along with the right and left hand patterns of the guitar-invoking accompaniments from time to time, but at least the pressing of my fingers against my jeans produced no sound unlike the slight jangle of the woman’s earrings or the scuffing of her blond curls against her companion’s nylon jacket…

This was my second vocal recital in as many days. The night before, I had attended Dmitri Hvorostovsky’s recital in the main auditorium of Carnegie Hall. This night’s recital was being held in the more intimate(!) Weill Recital Hall, and featured the mezzo-soprano, Sasha Cooke, filling in for an indisposed Joseph Kaiser. Song recitals hold a special place in my heart. While I was in college, I discovered the true Joy and Beauty of the Human Voice, and I subsequently devoted a good chunk of my studies to Classical Art Song Literature as both an Accompanist and a Singer. I accompanied voraciously. There were a few times when I had up to 15 voice majors to play for during the end of semester juries. -I still have the three-ring binders filled with all the Xerox copies of all of that repertoire! I even sang a few juries myself. I was also blessed with a wonderful Song Literature teacher and departmental Vocal Coach who was more than happy to let me sit in on other singer’s coachings from time to time.

When I saw the program for Sasha Cooke’s recital, it was like seeing a couple of old friends. I had studied the Debussy, Schumann and de Falla songs while I was in college. (The Harbison cycle, "North and South" was written a couple of years after I had graduated.) Although I was looking forward to hearing Liszt’s "Petrarcan Sonnets", and the selection of Rachmaninov songs on Joseph Kaiser’s originally scheduled program, I had heard the Liszt earlier this season, and the Siberian baritone had more than satisfied my Russian romance requirements for the time being. Being familiar with Ms. Cooke’s program allowed me to put my program and translations in my bag, and just sit back and enjoy the recital. Just Watch and Listen. Alas, I found myself watching and listening to other things during the course of the recital. -Thankfully, there were no errant cell-phone rings during Ms. Cooke’s recital, unlike the night before during Mr. Hvorostovsky’s concert – at least four times! – and always during the quieter sections!!!

Being a somewhat-former somewhat-performer myself, I really do try my best to be the Perfect Audience Member (PAM, for short). I arrive at the hall early enough to get seated, and if I know I am sitting in the middle of the row, I will make sure to take my place early enough in order not to inconvenience the others in my row sitting to the side of me. I dress appropriately. -Although due to an oversight on my part – "Oh, the recital starts at 7:30, not 8:00!" – I was not able to run home in time to put on more presentable clothing, and I ended up feeling a bit self-conscious as I sat there in the second row in my half-zip fleece pullover. I turn my cell-phone off – even "vibrations" can be heard. If needed, I keep my paper-wrapped Ricola’s in my hand ready to go at a moment’s notice. And if I’m not that familiar with the repertoire, I read the program notes and translations beforehand so that I can devote my full attention to the stage, and not have my head buried in the program reading along and cross-referencing the song text with the translations.

As I sat there listening to and watching the Artists and my fellow Audience members, I began to wonder just why I was being distracted by the low murmurs and the shuffling of the programs? If I really was paying full attention to what was going on on stage, then I would not and should not have been distracted by anything else going on around me. Right? Was I no longer the PAM I prided myself on being? Had I suddenly become one of Them?

With vocal recitals, in particular, I find myself from time to time wanting to advise some of my fellow audience members to Look Up and Listen. Stop reading along. Stop trying to match up each German word with the corresponding English word. The Singer is Singing. Communicating. Just let the Singer Communicate with You, to You. A related annoyance occurs whenever I attend a piano recital where Ravel’s "Gaspard de la Nuit" is being played. Inevitably, there will be people reading the texts and translations of the poems (if provided) that inspired the triptych, seemingly trying to match up the French and English(!) syllables with the piano figurations. But again: Why do I notice such things?

After a bit of theorizing – and, boy, did I come up with some far-flung theories – the answer to that question suddenly became quite obvious. If I was on that stage, I would want an audience filled with PAMs. A bit narcissistic, yes, but not an unreasonable request. Whether I was playing a Beethoven sonata, a Chopin ballade, or accompanying a singer or instrumentalist, I would want – and hope – the audience to Listen. A Musician’s life has good a deal of isolation built into it. A practice room can truly be the most "separate" place anyone can know, an inherent loneliness. Before a piece of music – or even just a brief phrase of it – can be shared with others or just your teacher, it must be pored over, dissected and repeated many times over, and the only ears that ever hear it during that process are your own. At times, it can seem like you are forcing yourself to listen to the music. Or vice versa. But then you reach that point where you want another set of ears to take in what you have been creating and re-creating. Music is Sound, and Sound is meant to go through the air. To borrow another analogy: If a pianist plays Chopin’s "Revolutionary" Etude, and there is no one in the audience to hear it…

I guess I should give my fellow audience members a break, or at least not allow myself to get so upset when such distractions occur. I was already feeling slightly uncomfortable sitting in Weill Hall dressed in a more casual manner than I would have liked, but then to have them right in front of me – and right in front of the Artists – well…

As the encores started, something almost miraculous happened. -I noticed this night before during Hvorostovsky’s recital too. Yes, there were a few mutterings throughout the audience as the pianist began playing the introduction – "What piece is this?", "Ah, very nice!" – but once Ms. Cooke started singing…

There was no translation to consult. There was no program to rustle. There were just two Artists on stage. Playing and Singing. Sharing and Communicating. And for a few minutes – during Rachmaninov’s "Spring Waters" and the haunting aria from John Adams’ "Doctor Atomic" – the hall was filled with PAMs. Listening. Receiving. Remembering. Smiling.

And, yes, she sang very well. And in Russian too!

*I would be sorely remiss if I did not mention the fine pianists who performed along side these fine singers: Ivari Ilja did the honors for Dmitri Hvorostovsky, and Pei-Yao Wang was Sasha Cooke’s musical partner.